


shadow stories

by Metronomeblue



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bondage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Heavy BDSM, Hinted At Anyway, Historical References, Human/Vampire Relationship, I'm literally just here to throw third division love into the void, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Multi, Painplay, Vampire AU, Vampire hunter Kensei, i love that I have to specify face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: A collection of vampire AU one-shots I drafted for fictober and then never managed to finish in time for fictober.Most are stand-alone, but if they're connected it'll say so in the summary





	1. Psyche (sfw)

**Author's Note:**

> Rose is a shameless flirt. Even with people he's meant to be killing.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,” she called, and Rose smiled softly at Psyche, contorted passionately in Eros’ arms, luminous and cold, lovelorn and old. They were like old friends. Old lovers. He heard the gentle click of heels approaching, soft-footed and familiar on the stone floor. Someone used to these floors, attuned to their resonance, the acoustics of the ceilings over them. Someone with the authority to know whether or not he was supposed to be there. He didn’t turn, merely followed her slowly, easily, from the corner of his eye as if mildly interested by the proceedings of his own life. 

“Canova,” he said off-handedly. “Commissioned in 1787. Didn’t end up here until-”

“1824,” she finished his sentence calmly, eyes narrowed. “I know.” He nodded, acknowledging.

“I suppose it is your job,” he said, offering a charming smile. “You seem the type to know everything that goes on around here.”

“Not exactly,” she said, voice fading a little. Rose turned to find her transfixed, absorbed entirely by the statue. “It’s my favorite,” she admitted. “I always wondered what- how it would feel to be that loved.”

“You don’t know?” Rose asked, despite himself. She shook her head, stepping forward. She looked so hopelessly empty in that moment, so full of want, so deeply, emphatically alone, that he couldn’t help reaching for her. 

“It’s always been so mysterious to me,” she murmured, and when she didn’t stop him, he let his hand curl around her wrist. “So strange.”

“I could show you,” he offered, and he let a thread of compulsion flood his touch, making her a little less rigid, a little more compliant. She nodded sadly, and he stepped in closer behind her.

“Can you feel this?” He asked, arms winding around her waist, chin resting companionably on her shoulder. “The closeness, the intimacy…” She nodded, slow and sad-eyed. “That’s what it is. That’s all there is to it.” She was soft in his arms, leaning lazily, hopefully, into his chest. Her eyes fluttered shut, the rhythm of his voice lulling her. “Love,” he murmured, violet eyes hazy with hunger and infatuation. He gazed down at her face, grateful and regretful all at once. “Love so much it becomes need,” he whispered, eyes falling on her throat, head bent back over his arm, heavy and warm and so soft- so easy. This was his purpose, after all. To do a friend a favor. To end one small, inconsequential, annoying little life. He’d delayed enough. He could take her neck between his teeth and snap it, quicker than the spine of a dove. He could sink his teeth in deeply, let her drift away peacefully and quietly. He could wake her up and listen to her muffled screams through his fingers over her mouth. 

Or, his foolish heart whispered, he could let her sleep. He could come back another night. He could fold her up in champagne and kisses and the softness of his hands and-

And do any of the above. Only much more painfully, because she’d trust him. Rose had courted humans before- mortal and sweet and painfully quick to fall into his arms. So quick to believe. Some had been right to, and they’d died old and withered beside him, and he’d wept for them all. Some had died harshly, others more gentle than sleep. Some had gone fighting to their graves, their blood dripping from his hands and mouth. Many had died in his arms, his teeth buried in their flesh. You didn’t stay King by going soft.

But soft he must have gone.

“Sleep well, Psyche,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand. “Wake to forget me.” The compulsion filtered through her dreams, as it always did, and Rose slipped away as if he’d never been there. He watched security wake her, concerned and ineffectual, watched her gaze achingly at the statue, flex the muscles in her hand where his kiss had sunk in. He watched her leave, a problematic little moth in his firelight.

He returned the next night, before closing. She was lovely in grey, and the warm white light cast her in shadow and shade, small face serious and focused. She didn’t remember him. She was unduly charmed, taken off-guard, almost. He returned every night, carrying out a concentrated- if gentle- campaign of seduction and softening. It took her six weeks to say yes. 

It took him one night to realize there was no way he could kill her.

He met her at the restaurant- nicer than most, but not enough to give him away- and opened the door for her. He pulled out her chair, poured her champagne, wore down her considerable defenses until she was looking at him with desire and fondness mixed. Dinner proceeded quickly, so enjoyable that he didn’t have time to cringe at the taste of his soup, so engaging that he forgot that this was a prelude to a murder.

Dessert brought the memory back, her wicked smile over a bite of tiramisu stirring hunger in him enough to shake his control. This is not a date, he told himself, sick with conflict. You are not allowed to care.

She made that a very difficult thing to believe. 

He took her home. To his home, or at least to the home procured specifically for nefarious purposes such as the brutal murder of Louvre curators. The thought of her blood on his tongue, his hands, his body- it rattled him in its intensity. Nevertheless, he unlocked his front door and opened it widely to bow her through into the warmth of his temporary home.

“You’re really going to go through all the pain of acting the perfect gentleman, aren’t you?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow at his holding the door yet again.

“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure,” Rose stepped in behind her, and she shot him a look before offering back her shoulders that he might slip her coat from them.

“Are you quoting the Marquis de Sade to me on the first date?” She scoffed, smiling despite herself. Rose hid his smile in her shoulder as he pulled off her coat, one fluid motion that let him step back and see her turn to face him.

“How else to ensure there’ll be a second?” He replied, shrugging and raising an eyebrow. “There’s not a woman in Paris- or a man, for that matter- who doesn’t melt a little to old Donatien.”

“On a first-name basis, are you?” She asked, stepping backwards at a slow, lingering pace that left him burning with anticipation. Her smile was small, twisted up on one side. Teasing and wry and affectionate already. He almost forgot to answer, except he was Rose.

“We were,” he replied, in a matching tone, the truth enfolded in the tease. He followed her forward, step for step, sway for sway. “Before he got himself locked up.”

“Let me guess,” she said, fighting back a real smile. “You taught him everything he knew.” He moved forward, catching her just enough off-guard to loop an arm around her waist and curl his body behind hers, pulling her in close, holding her still while she laughed.

“Most of it,” Rose purred into her ear, trying not to think of how public the restaurant had been, how fast the news would spread, how quickly they’d expect him to kill her. How long he could delay this. He forced it away. “Would you like me to teach you?” He asked, voice soft, low and serious with honest offer. He could hear her heart, feel it, pounding madly in her chest. He could smell the faint alcoholic rasp of perfume, the powdered floral soap, the slickness of salt between her legs. He could feel her blush, warmth prickling over his fingers where they held her hips.

“Yes,” she said quietly. Her heart jumped, as if in regret, or perhaps uncertainty. Rose smiled, rueful and knowing.

“Maybe next time,” he said, releasing her. She blinked at him, unbalanced, as he slipped around her to slide the deadlock into place. “For now,” he suggested in the same calm, low voice, “I think sleep might be enough.” He reached out a hand, and she slid her fingers between his with a kind of pleased shyness that made his chest ache a little. He pushed it away, leading her upstairs in a contented silence that carried its own anticipation.

They undressed each other slowly, sleepily, hands clumsy and unfamiliar on each other’s skin. She wore his shirt, he took the elastic from her hair and used it to tie off his braid. He hid her beneath layers of sheets, thick blankets, and his arms, resting his chin on the crown of her head. He listened to her breathe. Thought how easily he could stop her from breathing. Listened to her heart. Thought how easily he could take it from her chest. Looked down at her, sleeping, trusting and sweet in his bed. 

Kissed her palm, and murmured, “Forget me, Psyche.”


	2. Pulling Pigtails (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gin likes being hurt. Rose very graciously gives him what he wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is self-indulgent I'm so sorry

“Do you think you’re ready?” Gin’s fangs hovered tantalizingly over the flesh of her throat, white and glimmering as they’d been when he’d flashed them at her in a smile. She could feel the wet heat of his breath brushing gently over her neck, the quick swipe of his tongue, the cool press of his fingers on her wrist.

“Are you going to kill me?” She asked blandly, half a tease and half an expectation. Gin moved his head back and frowned ostentatiously.

“Kill you?” He asked, laying a spidery hand over his heart. “I’m hurt. People like you have no imagination.”

“People like me?” She asked, raising an eyebrow and sitting up. “You mean living people?” Gin was pushed back and opened his mouth to argue before Rose sighed heavily, resting a hand on each of their heads.

“I leave you alone for five entire minutes,” he lamented. “Should I be afraid for your chances with each other?” He swept between them and settled easily into the bed, still looking rather disapproving. “Should I separate you for your own good, children?”

“Would you like me to call you ‘father’?” Gin asked, grinning once more. Rose gave him a look. His grin did not fade.

“That was one time,” Rose said, sounding pained. “And you know damn well I didn’t mean it.”

“But father,” she said, faux-innocently, and he made a strangled noise like a dying bird. Both she and Gin dissolved into laughter, and she twined her hand with Rose’s to bring it to her mouth. “You know we’re only teasing, don’t you?” She asked, more softly.

“Like pullin’ pigtails,” Gin agreed, turning over to prop himself over Rose, elbow next to Rose’s head and smile firmly in place. “Just a littl’ tease between lovers.”

“Is that so?” Rose asked, cocking a singular eyebrow. “Troublesome boy.”

“You like it,” Gin purred, leaning in to rub his nose over Rose’s cheek like a cat. “You like me.”

“I love you,” Rose corrected him. “Though I am forced to wonder why on occasion.”

“It’s because I let you do all the twisted things your black heart desires,” Gin told him, fluttering his dark eyelashes. “Better yet, because I enjoy them.”

“Mmm, then perhaps you’ll enjoy this,” Rose said, tapping a delicate fingertip on the tip of Gin’s nose. “Dearest, if you would.” She snorted, rolling over to pull a drawer open and retrieve a heavy pair of manacles- more prison than police, more silver than steel. Gin’s unnecessary breath caught, and Rose smirked. “You did mention something about hair-pulling, I believe?” Gin turned, wrists coupled obligingly behind his back. Rose began to pull on a pair of jet black gloves, kid leather and silk thread making the faintest of sounds on his soft skin.

The first hiss of burning flesh made them all flinch, but the muffed, lengthy moan Gin let out quickly restored the other two to their task. Rose tightened the other cuff, a fresh waft of blood and sizzling setting them all on edge. The key, equally silver was placed delicately between Gin’s teeth. He turned to look at them, and it caught, burning, on the corner of his mouth. She plucked it from his teeth and resettled it, more evenly, her other hand firm and steady on his chin. “Hold still,” she said, stroking the hair from his face. “You have to be careful with things like this.” He nodded, slowly, so she knew he heard. She nodded back, kissing the place it had burned him. Rose’s gloved hand swept over his opposite cheek, landing a heavy slap once she’d moved away. Gin hissed, swinging his head back into place, blood trickling from his mouth where the key and his own teeth had hit the inside of his cheek. Rose brushed his hand over the red handprint left there before landing an equal, opposite slap on his other cheek. Gin whimpered, teeth clenched painfully, wrists still throbbing with pain. “You really like it, don’t you?” She asked, and the humiliation, the disdain in her voice, made his cock ache. The pain, the gentle touch, their scathing remarks- he loved it. “Already wet,” she scoffed, rubbing a disinterested thumb over the slit of his head, collecting just enough fluid to wipe on his chest like dirt, like something she didn’t want to touch.

“Already?” Rose asked, and the surprise made Gin’s pulse spike. “Wanton, needy little thing, aren’t you?” He rubbed a thumb over Gin’s swollen, silver-kissed lip, pressed at the key, scraped over his teeth. “So eager.” His knee pressed into Gin’s thighs, splitting his knees and forcing him to straddle Rose’s thigh. Ride it, almost. 

“Oh, that looks painful,” she said, coming closer, rising high enough to be face-to-face with him. “You want to come?” He nodded, ecstatic and shameful, and she smiled cruelly. She hooked a hand in his hair, pulled his head back enough to place a row of kisses down his throat. When she reached the sharp dip of his collarbone she nipped at it, little red teeth marks pressed into his moon-pale skin. “Only when he says you can,” she said, fingers digging little crescent moons into his chest, his scalp. Rose’s fingers hooked into the space between his wrist and the cuff, pressing them more deeply into the other side of his wrists, pulling him back up straight, more deeply into Rose’s chest. His stomach clenched against her hand, and he whimpered, moaned, wailed. Still smiling fiercely, terribly, around the silver between his teeth.

“Has he been good enough, do you think?” Rose asked distantly. She eyed Gin’s panting, sobbing face, the blood and spit and sweat on his cheeks. She nodded, kissing some of it away, lips red and shiny with the mess he made. Rose considered it, then tugged at Gin’s wrists hard enough to force another cry from him.

“Do me a favor, troublemaker,” Rose hummed into his ear, sliding his other leather-clothed hand down Gin’s chest. The softness, the cool foreign material skimming his sensitive skin, the very feeling of Rose’s touch- it set Gin astir. She smiled, catlike and sweet, scraping her flat human teeth over his ribs, his nipples, his thin-skinned breastbone. Between the two of them he was unhinged, unearthly. Floating in agonized pleasure as his wrists throbbed and his pulse thundered heavily in his weeping cock. Rose’s lips were soft on the shell of his ear, his hand was soft on Gin’s neglected, heated flesh. “Come for me.”

And he did.


	3. chase (sfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kensei makes assumptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot what I called this one initially so this title is different

Hisagi Shuhei was a very reluctant vampire. He did his best to stay quiet, to keep his job at the corner store, to stick to the shadows and always take the graveyard shift and never, ever, get caught. He was polite, nervous, and diligent.

“Whoa! Hey, come on man, come on- don’t!” Shuhei was also, currently, at the mercy of a very irate vampire hunter. The man had soft, grey hair, a knife in the hollow between Shuhei’s ribs, and a hand around his throat, pushing him over the wall that surrounded the roof. Everything from the waist down was behind the wall. Everything above was bent over it, inches from falling.

“You killed Motoko Imaya,” the man said, firm and immovable, one hand curled around Shuhei’s shirt to tether him, however briefly, to the solidity of the building. He could hear cars, club music from an apartment below, the soft thump-thump of the hunter’s heart, a one-two step of intimidation and weakness. He could break that grip and tumble over and wave goodbye to the white-haired man as he vanished into the night. Wouldn’t be hard. He’d done it before.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Shuhei replied, letting the panic fall from his face a little. “I don’t kill people.”

“You’re a vampire,” the hunter said, as if that was all he needed to say.

“You’re a hunter. You’ve probably killed more people than I have,” Shuhei snapped.

“I’ve only ever killed one person,” the hunter growled, stepping in closer, dangling Shuhei just a little further over the abyss of traffic. “I’ve killed plenty of monsters.”

“You’re still outdoing me,” Shuhei snorted. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

“That’s not how it works.” Shuhei couldn’t help it. He laughed, and the man’s brow furrowed in the face of it.

“We’ve got blood banks,” he pointed out. “Knives and wine glasses. That’s how my friends do it. Not a bite to be seen. I knew a guy who used to follow wars around and drink from fresh corpses. We don’t-” he paused, biting his lip to keep the grin in check. “We don’t linger in the past when things can be so much simpler.”

“And you?” His grip on Shuhei was loosening, softened by common sense and belief. 

“I like a nice trip to the Red Cross,” he said, before making a face and nodding. “But I’ve had a few uh. Well. Izuru can be persuasive.”

“Never killed anyone,” the hunter murmured, looking like he’d seen a fucking unicorn. “That’s a new one.” He cleared his throat, took a step back to slide his knife back into its sheath. “How old are you?”

“Older than you,” Shuhei said, shrugging. “Let’s just say I remember when cigarettes were good for you.” He pulled a pack from his pocket and tried to keep his hands from shaking as he lit one. There was a pause, silence enough to calm him.

“Those things’ll kill you,” the hunter said blandly, and Shuhei had to catch his eye to see it was meant as a joke.

“Could say the same about you,” he said, gazing over the edge to look at the stream of lights. “You were about to throw me over the edge for someone else’s fuck up.”

“Someone else’s?” The man asked, and Shuhei turned to look at him. “You know who it was?”

“If I did I still wouldn’t tell you,” he shrugged, blowing a stream of smoke that was half fog from his breath and half nicotine and tar. “You’d just kill me after. And all my friends.”

“They killed anyone?” He asked. Shuhei shrugged noncommittally.

“I wouldn’t know.” The man looked furious, and very disbelieving. “I don’t even know your name. You nearly threw me off of a building. I don’t think you get to ask me things.”

“My name is Kensei. I-” He looked distinctly to the left of Shuhei’s face. “I’d like your help.” His hand unfurled, empty and gold-tinted by the light of the streetlamp. Shuhei took another drag and considered it, rolling the cigarette like a pencil between his fingers. He scuffed it out on the wall and looked down once more at the street.

“I’m sure you would.” Shuhei turned abruptly and shook his hand. On a whim. “As long as you leave town right after, we have a deal.” He looked Kensei in the eye and smiled, a hint of fang to throw him off. “My name is Shuhei.”

He could have sworn he saw a flicker of a smile in the hunter’s eyes. Then his hand slipped out of Shuhei’s and closed, immovable, on Shuhei’s wrist.

“Can I trust you?” Kensei asked, grip tight. Shuhei could throw him off, easy. Could snap his neck or tear it out or just walk away, if he had the guts to. But Shuhei wasn’t that kind of person, and he was especially not that kind of vampire. He was spiteful, though. Just a little. Just enough.

“No,” Shuhei said plainly, meeting Kensei’s stony gaze. “But you will anyway.” Kensei blinked first, eyes wide and unsettled. Shuhei pulled away, lightly. Gently, almost. He stepped back, all thin limbs and quiet challenge. “By the end of the night you’ll be putting your life in my hands.” Kensei’s face twisted, anger filling him at the suggestion. “Meet you downstairs,” Shuhei continued, in that same level, soft voice. Then, just as Kensei had initially planned, he stepped back over the edge of the building, and Kensei’s heart lurched despite himself. 

He didn’t rush to the edge, didn’t want to give the vampire the satisfaction of seeing him worry, but he traced the probable fall in his head. Backwards, head first to start, easy easy drifting. His legs would be pushed up, until he was upside down- vertical, and peaceful in face and motion. And then as the ground sped towards his pretty face, he’d let gravity take its course, spinning himself another ninety degrees to land on his feet. Catlike. Inhuman. Breathtaking..

“Show-off,” Kensei muttered, stepping back and turning to the door. 

Shuhei didn’t actually fall that gracefully, of course. He was a semi-living body in gravitational free-fall. There was bound to be a twist or two,a pedaling of the legs against his own will, a quick scrabble at the heedless air, and gut-churning turn to look at the ground as it rushed toward him- and then instinct took over and he landed, light on his feet.

“Oh fuck,” Shuhei panted, resting his forehead on the stone. “Oh fuck. Okay.” He took a moment to let the last instinctual gasp of air leave him, reflex more than breath, and then he stood, silent. He could smell blood, not his own, heavy and dizzying on the midnight breeze.

He turned, just in time to see Kensei step from the front door.

The game, so to speak, was afoot.


End file.
